


At the Edge of the World (A Raven's Blade Tale)

by Valandhir



Series: The Raven's Blade [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valandhir/pseuds/Valandhir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attack on a hidden Corsair harbor damages two fleets beyond hope and throws two survivors onto an unknown beach. Stranded on a long lost island enemies comes face to face with each other - and with the traces of a long lost past. </p><p>A Raven's Blade Tale</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Edge of the World (A Raven's Blade Tale)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScribeofRed](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ScribeofRed).



> Author’s Preface
> 
> This story began – and still is – a birthday present for the wonderful Scribe of Red, who is putting countless hours and a lot of patience into the editing of “A distant Light” (and yes, it will take a good while until I can post that!). I really admire how much patience she has for my spelling, my sentence structure and my often not-understanding the modern writing concept. Anyway, she asked for a story where Boromir and Shakurán are forced to work together for more than 5 minutes. *grins* Well, I hunkered down and wrote a story for her – and the wonderful person that she is, she put a lot of additional time into improving it, to the form you see here now. 
> 
> That I am posting this now and not later is mainly because when I write “Heart of the Journey” I find myself referencing events in this story. (The several-times mentioned Corsair event for one.) 
> 
> So, this story is part of “The Raven’s Blade” and would fit into that timeline in the last part of “The Twilight Years”, after “Blood on Cold Stones” and before “Say goodbye to your brothers.” 
> 
> I really can’t claim to be the sole author of this story any more – Scribe of Red put lots of work, effort, corrections and suggestions into it, without her this story wouldn’t be what it is. So let me loudly say ‘Thank you’ and hug Scribe of Red quite publically. You absolutely rock, my friend!
> 
> Thank you
> 
> Valandhir
> 
> PS. While this story can be read as a standalone, many smaller details, especially pertaining Shakurán and his background will only make sense if the Reader knows “The Raven’s Blade”.

 

Bay of Belfalas, June 3016 TA

 

Another wave rose nearly to the bow of the _Sealion_ , crushing against the mighty wooden body of the ship, white foam spraying over the deck. Boromir raised his arm to shield against the repeated spray, and then grabbed the salt-smoothed railing as the deck rolled heavily under his boots. A few steps away, Veryan chuckled, but he had the sense to look chastised swiftly when Boromir shot him a glare. “How much further out is it?” Boromir asked, to distract himself from the rolling planks and the perpetual fine spray of sea foam raining down on them. After days in the perpetual Eastern gale, he began to feel like the sense of nausea was retreating to just a dull discomfort whenever a particularly rough wave raised the ship’s bow. How Veryan could be so relaxed was beyond him; he even seemed to enjoy the long journey on the ships.

 

“Not much further – an hour, two at the most and we should see the island,” he replied, his eyes going to the sun and back to the sea, as though reading the ship’s position by them alone.

 

Boromir knew Veryan could navigate when the stars were in skies – he had done so on each of the sixteen previous evenings, to ascertain they still were their course – and while this was an ability beyond Boromir, he knew how to add up the distances Veryan gave him each evening. “The island’s positions places it very close to the forbidden seas.” Boromir was not sure what made him more uncomfortable: the ship rolling in the early summer gale, being so far off any shore, or the eerie proximity of the line on the map that Elendil had drawn and made an unalterable limit to all sailors. To this day, the seas beyond were considered forbidden, albeit the death penalty for those daring to cross that line had been abolished by the last King of Gondor more than 900 years ago. Scholars and sailors alike had wondered why Elendil would pass such a law in the first place, and why it had been upheld so strictly for that many generations. Boromir hardly wasted time on such riddles. The fact remained that Elendil had seen some kind of danger that had caused him to create such a law, and while it was old and abandoned, Boromir could not repress the nagging unease rising inside him. The closer they came to the line, the more restless he felt, like there was something – a danger, a shadow, nothing more – looming ahead of them, though he was trying to tell himself that he simply disliked ships, even one as magnificent as the _Sealion_.

 

“Aye, though Elendil’s line is another day’s worth of sailing west of us.” Veryan stood leaning against the main mast, one foot raised and set against the mighty wooden beam, the other firmly planted on the deck. He had no problems keeping his balance that way, even when the wind rocked the ship strongly and pulled on his wild black hair. “Approaching the line is something you feel, Boromir – the sea is much more restless there and the perpetual gale from the west makes maneuvering much harder. I doubt even our friends in Umbar would dare to go that close.”

 

And that was the true reason they were here, more than two weeks’ worth of strong sailing out from Gondor’s coast, Boromir mused: The reports about a new island fortress of the Corsairs, a hideout from which they were encroaching on Gondor’s shipping lines. The navigation logs from the Corsair ship sunken only a few miles off the coast of Dol Amroth had provided them with the navigational instructions that would lead a ship to a hidden Corsair port. It was not complete and lacked some details, but it was at least enough of a clue to try to find the raider’s latest hideout. Yet, Veryan’s words drew his attention into another direction. “How do you know?” he asked, crossing his arms. “Have you ever been there?” He tilted his head left, towards the western seas, the ever stretching waters that reached to the horizon, and a small voice inside him whispered that Elendil might have passed the law for that reason so no one could try to sail there, dooming Arda like Númenor had been doomed.

 

Veryan gave up on his relaxed pose and walked up to Boromir, who still leaned against the railing near the bow. “I came within two hours of Elendil’s line when _Stormrunner_ was caught in that tempest ten years ago.” Earnest blue eyes held Boromir’s gaze, and he saw in Veryan’s open expression that his friend wanted to reassure him that he had not by free will flaunted a law Elendil himself had written. “ _Stormrunner_ was a windracer, a tall ship, relying on sails only with no oars to make use of. We ran fifteen days before the storm before we lost the first mast and the gale only turned the opposite direction when we came within the reach of Elendil’s line.”

 

“I remember, Veryan; you were half dead by the time _Stormrunner_ made it back to Tolfalas,” Boromir said, lightly clasping the other man’s shoulder. “And still I’d wish we were not so close to the forbidden seas nor that those black clouds were gathering to the east.”

 

Veryan’s eyes followed to the direction Boromir pointed. A wisp of clouds had slowly grown during the last hours and now was a ring of black clouds framed by silver light. Boromir saw how Veryan stepped away from the mast and peered up towards the swiftly darkening horizon. He did not like it either, that much was clear by the way his jaw set. “Once we reach the island, we can get under land and wait the storm out,” Veryan said his eyes narrowing as he studied the clouds. “I’ll speak to Captain Dyrnárn to change course West to bring us in on the off side of the island.”

 

***

 

Less than a minute after the galley began to roll and shudder as the bow broke through ever-growing waves, Shakurán heard the drum above deck that directed the rowers raise speed – the captain was trying to steady the ship through excessive use of the oars. Leaning against one of the rough beams propping up the low ceiling of the slave hold, Shakurán was careful to keep his shackled right arm immobile; one hard tug on the chain would ruin the façade. The restrains were primitive as it was: a simple manacle at the wrist connected to a chain that ran to an iron ring embedded in the floor of the hold; each individual chain was several steps long, allowing each slave to move towards the leak bucket or make room for another person. There were a number of such rings along the hold, though only a few were in use at the moment. In the first night when he had still been alone in the hold, Shakurán had broken the chain link that connected his shackle to the chain. A normal slave would not have been able to that, excepting perhaps mine slaves and arena fighters. He was careful to not show he was free to move about, keeping in his place most of the time.

 

Not that the two weeks inside the slave hold with the hopeless and the wretched had been especially pleasant. The slave hold was a cramped room below deck, and Shakurán could call it a small mercy that the hold was only partially filled; it made the narrow, stuffy den slightly more bearable. The dozen other slaves corralled in here with him were mostly catches the ship had transferred from a larger Corsair vessel, by a principle he had yet to work out.

 

Shifting his position ever so slightly, he listened to the drums above becoming more frantic. The next time Idrakhán came up with such grandiose plans, he could play the fake captive. Although, Shakurán doubted his brother would be able to curb his pride and pretend to be an Easterling slave for that long. He was too prideful, too arrogant. Keeping one’s head down and pretending to be nobody could gain a Man many secrets and often insights into the true status of the auxiliaries. By pretending to be a lowly foot soldier, Shakurán had uncovered more than once case of corruption or abuse that he had swiftly put an end to in days past.

 

The ship craned to the side, before a heavy hard rolling began to move the planks. The two other slaves that were chained to the same ring as he should have been were crouched to his left by the next beam, trying to keep their balance, but failed when the deck tipped to port. Stumbling, one of them, a young Dorwinon with shaggy blond hair, landed half against Shakurán, who rose to a crouch, manacled hand braced against the beam, and steadied him. “Best to keep sitting, Falon, the sea’s getting rough,” he said in the tongue of the Empire, knowing that the people of the former trading nation and more recent province of the Empire understood the Imperial tongue well.

 

The younger Man sat down and nodded his thanks; like all others in the hold, he wore ragged black  clothes and had not been permitted to wash for two weeks. “Falon?” he asked, his hand seeking hold on the rough planks, keen eyes surveying Shakurán. The slave beside him shuffled further away. He had avoided any form of interaction with Shakurán since the day they had been brought onboard. Like all of them, Shakurán was marked by two weeks with scare food and scant water, though he guessed he was holding up better than some of the feverish slaves down in the hold. If the Corsairs went on like that, half the slaves would be too sick for the market – not that he expected any intelligence from the thieves.

 

“None of you would ever talk,” Shakurán replied, sitting back down again and sliding anew into his position against the beam, pushing his feet more firmly against the planks to not fall as the ship rocked again. Through the thin dark rags he wore, he felt the warm, hard wood against the muscles of his back. He noticed that the other slave cast a warning glance at Falon and shuffled away as far as his chain allowed. “So I amused myself by giving you all names. Falon means ‘Dreamwalker’ in my province’s tongue – it fits you.”

 

The Dorwinon laughed, shaking his head until his shaggy blond mane fell around his shoulders. “And you wonder why we do not talk to you. Slaves from the Empire are trouble; you still think yourself above commoners if your Master is high enough, and you still believe that you will be treated with some form of honor – only you are not in the Empire anymore. Naming a slave out of turn can get you fifty lashes, if the slavemaster is a strict man.”

 

“Which is not the case on this ship – the slavemaster is a perpetual drunk who hardly ever bothers to look at the hold; the captain has no experience running slaves and leaves the matter mostly in the hands of the supercargo, who is incompetent; and the crew is uneasy to approach that new Corsair port. They still hope to get this trade conducted without troubles, which means they are weak and we are strong.”

 

“Only an Easterling can come with such a warped piece of logic.” Falon raised his shackled hands, the rusty chain clanging loudly. “You equate their hope as weakness and our not having hope with strength… What was it that warrior philosopher of yours said about that?”

 

“‘The best hope of the damned is not to hope for safety.’” He could not speak the words without a hardening edge creeping into his voice. He had always felt a bit torn about Temuráin’s sayings, because they heralded a hopelessness that he could not quite fathom. Temuráin had been one of those who still had served the Dark Lord directly, one of his chosen, and for him to speak in such grim words echoed a lack of faith, a lack trust that Shakurán was uncomfortable with. Those who were devoted to the Shadow were neither doomed nor damned, much as others might claim it so. “All we can lose is our lives. Those sailors up there – they still have other things to lose: their shares in the cargo, their cut from the trade, their hopes for profit… all things that are weighing them down.”

 

“Hear the Greater Empire talk.” Falon smiled lightly. Like Shakurán, he had slept little during the last few nights in the feverish hold, but the way he settled against the wood and kept with the conversation made Shakurán wonder if Falon too enjoyed the distraction from their immediate surroundings. Maybe he even enjoyed a civilized conversation, a luxury given the circumstances. “What is your name then? Or what name did they give you?”

 

“My name is Shakurán.” A new wave rocked the boat, and the drum above changed rhythm, commanding the rowers on the right side to use the oars twice as heavy. The ship was coming about! Shakurán sat up straight, listening to the noises above.

 

“Shakurán, who is Ai’mee, who is Kal’tir, the Hunter of the Moon – the Moon-Jaguar – the name fits you.” Falon looked up when the drum became frantic and the ship’s movements went from rocky to erratic. “We are going into combat…” he whispered. “They are bringing us about and… that’s the command for all fighters above deck.”

 

“Right you are. They must have forgotten to pay their Corsair dues.” It was time, then. Shakurán yanked his chain, too relieved to finally be moving to wince as the metal bit into his skin, and then reached over and swiftly grasped Falon’s shackles; they were dinged and ill maintained, like everything aboard this vessel, but they could have withstand his hands, especially as the voyage had taken its toll on him too. Closing his eyes, Shakurán allowed his mind to become empty, to give way for the darkness. He felt the embrace, the Shadow touching him almost gently, as his hands suddenly had the strength and he broke the iron ring, like he had done with his own. “Which means we might have to take to the rat’s wisdom and leave the stinking… sinking vessel.”

 

Perplexed, Falon looked at his hands – there were abrasions around his wrists, red and swollen, but he was free. “You… you were never a captive…” he whispered. “You are an Easterling warrior.”

 

“Shakurán of the Shade Wings.” Shakurán took Falon’s hand and helped him up. The same moment, a horribly cracking went through the ship; wood splintered and the ship was thrown to the side. The other captives scrambled to their feet, screaming in panic as the ship shook even more violently then before. The momentum cost Shakurán his balance and he crashed into the hard planks of the ground, rolling over the floor and landing in an empty corner of the room. Falon fell as well, landing on him, but managed to find some hold in the nearby support beam. The ship bent further; a few planks of the hull splintered and water began to seep into the lower hold.

 

If the other slaves had been frightened before, now they were downright panicked, screaming and pulling on their chains, trying to free themselves. The more resourceful of them tried to break the plank with the ring, but most acted with the blind, wild panic of caged animals.

 

Jumping to his feet, Shakurán pulled Falon up. Water was seeping into the hold swiftly now and he felt the cool liquid brush his bare feet. A singing pain, as though he had stepped into weak acid, tingled on his skin and he winced. The Western Seas held no like for his kind and even the smallest exposure to them was uncomfortable. “Time to be gone,” he said, grabbing Falon’s arm. “We need to be swift.”

 

“What—” Falon did not get the words out, as another rough movement went through the ship, the room becoming more tilted. Shakurán ran to the door of the hold, pulling Falon along. He spun about and kicked the wooden door of the hold in; wood splintered; another kick and they had a hole to climb through. “We were rammed,” he said as he slipped through the splintery exit, the jagged edges further fraying the already torn rags he wore and scratching the skin of his legs. “The way we are moving, I think we are logged with the ram bow of the other ship – that can sink both vessels in minutes.”

 

They were out of the hold; there were no guards here and the slavemaster who should have taken care that the slaves were overseen was most likely snoring drunk in his den. Shakurán headed for ladder he could see to their left. This was a typical Umbar galley and they were built to exactly three sets of plans that never varied. From above, he heard another crash, followed by screams and just a whiff of an almost acidic smoke. “Catapults… who in the name of the Evil Spirit from Moria is using catapults when fighting a galley?” he grumbled, wondering who would overdo it so much. Corsair galleys were easy to take down and using catapults was like using ballistae to hunt game. As he climbed up the ladder, he made sure that Falon stayed close with him. When they reached the deck, the wind that greeted them was too warm and humid, heavy with rain not yet shed. The light falling from the gaps between the dark clouds caused a bright spray of glimmering points to shine in the air. Shakurán ducked, pulling Falon down with him just quick enough to evade a salvo of arrows, which glittered in the remaining light like a deathly prelude of the rain soon to come. Remaining crouched, he found cover behind some barrels together with Falon.

 

“Darkness above – who invited Gondor to the Corsairs’ island?” he muttered, seeing that the Gondorians were crazy enough to board the ship they were firing upon. Their troops were fighting the Corsairs all around and one of their ships was already under land – the island was less than half a league away from them.

 

Shakurán could see three Gondorian ships, two windrunners, one wavedancer –Dol Amroth ships beyond doubt. Their ships were distinctive – no one else in Middleeearth built ships like them. Now he understood the catapults: they were their first weapon of choice when dealing with Corsairs. The wavedancer’s bow was deeply buried in the side of the Corsair vessel and both ships were slowly turning on their sides, dragging each other under the waves The heavy wind and high rolling waves made things no better. A loud crash made him turn around. The fighting on the lower deck had just destabilized the second mast, and it broke with a loud, sickening crack. When the sails touched the water and got soaked, they weighed the ships even more to side the same moment the storm raised them from the trough of the sea. Between the fighters on the aft side, Shakurán spotted a familiar figure. “I should have known… only one man is crazy enough to pursue the Corsairs into their own waters and in a tempest that will put the Great Drowning to shame.” He peered over his shoulder, watching Boromir fight the captain of the Corsair vessel and pushing him more and more towards them. “Falon, come with me.”

 

The planks were not rolling anymore; their movement had become an erratic shaking as the ship was dragged more and more over to the side. Jumping over a broken piece of cargo, Shakurán tried to assess the best way to get to the other side of the deck. It did not help that Boromir and his wild duel was pushing the same direction. Until now he had managed to evade any encounter with the Gondorians – or maybe he just looked like what he pretended to be: a fleeing slave. When he saw the gap between two fighting groups, they took it, dashing past them, when a trap door was flung open before them and a burly, if slightly flailing, figure swung himself up onto the deck, a heavy whip dangling from his fingers.

 

“Slaves running?” he drawled, and then swung the multi-lashed whip.

 

Shakurán darted forward, placing himself between Falon and their attacker. The whip whistled through the air and Shakurán raised his arm, letting it be hit full force, embracing the pain as the leather coiled around his forearm, cutting long, bleeding gashes into his skin. He pulled on the coarse leather, yanking it from the slavemaster’s grip. In his surprise the Man stumbled and doomed himself, for Shakuran grabbed the rough wooden handle of the whip and freed the leather bands to serve as a garrote, strangulating the slave master.

 

“Falon, move it, we do not have much time.” He did not spare a second glance for the dead man on the planks, not when he saw that Boromir of Gondor had just beheaded the Corsair captain and was making swift work of the helmsman only three steps away. If he was here, who was in charge of the ships? The youngest of Dol Amroth most likely – they loved their ships.

 

“You killed him.” Falon’s eyes were still on the strangled slavemaster. “They’ll hang us all for that.” There was no fear in his voice, only cold acceptance.

 

“They won’t, because if we survive the drowning, they’ll get their hanging for disloyalty.” Shakurán led them across the rapidly sinking ship. When they reached the aft side, Shakurán used the blade of a fallen Corsair to cut loose one of the storage barrels for fresh water that were tied onto the deck and turned over the water barrel so it spilled its contents across the already wet planks. He kicked it into the sea, now less than two steps below them. “Falon, get a hold of that – it well help you to get ashore.”

 

“Why?” Falon asked, moving one step back, bracing his arms in front of his chest.

 

Shakurán turned to face him fully. “There is no time – seven Easterling ships are less than a day out. Get ashore – then make your choice. Gondor knows your people are not free anymore; they’ll spare you if you behave well enough. Or wait for our ships and report to them – mention my name and you should be fine. Now go.” He pushed Falon to the barrel; it would swim and help him stay afloat. They already stood in knee deep water – the wavedancer was dragging them down, the ram bow still buried in their ship’s side.

 

When Shakurán turned to find another barrel, he found himself face to face with Boromir of Gondor. The other Man spoke but earsplitting thunder drowned out the words, even as he shouted them. For the space of a breath or two, the world lost all voice. Shakurán did not hear the fighting, the crashing waves or the breaking wood as the bowsprit shattered. And then the lightning struck, one fierce white spark ripping the skies apart and hitting the main mast. The Corsair ship broke apart, timbers whirling up into the air. Pushed back by something hard impacting into his chest, Shakurán found himself falling towards the greedy waves.

 

Water enveloped him, the burning of the angry seas on his skin like a constant fire, and each movement of his body was slower than it should be. The water felt almost sickly warm and burned against his body, like it was trying to chase him out of its sacred floods. He opened his eyes; it hurt worse than the use of the shadowed sight the first few times after he had attained that blessing, but he did not let it stop him. _Embrace the pain, draw it inside; the pain becomes your strength, accept the pain and become one with the Shadow_. He recited the training words again and again.. His sight cleared and he saw vague, inky shapes around himself. One was close by: a dark shape rapidly becoming larger as the water surged around them, displaced by a sinking vessel. It wasn’t until the form nearly passed him that he realized it was a Man, and he reached out, gripping the heavy form, and suddenly recognized a familiar shade of tawny hair. Who had ever said that Numenoráns could not swim?

 

Wrapping one arm around the limp form of Boromir, Shakurán began to swim towards the surface. The moment they touched, the burn faded away from his skin and he could move easier, though there still was a lingering enmity, a pain that went deeper than the burn that remained. He pushed harder, forcing them up more rapidly. They were not deep under yet, and their time was short. Each stroke of his free arm felt harder than the one before and even the lingering light of the surface was far off, fading out. The air burned in his lung and his chest constricted; he wanted to breathe and the body he was pulling up with him seemed like a load of lead.

 

When he finally broke to the surface, he was gasping not just for air, though his strained lungs demanded to breathe – he also was panting from the strain.

 

The heavy wind greeted him above, spray clashing against his face and the waves nearly pressing them under again. The sea was enraged, her anger directed at him – or so it felt.  He saw another wave tower above them. Inhaling sharply, he held his breath as the water gushed down on them, but he managed to keep his hold on the unconscious Gondorian.

 

Thunder rolled through the air, the noise drowning out the rage of the seas. A blurry, dark form danced close to him on the water, the waves playing with the shadowy shape, pushing it up and down like a toy. When it came close, he reached for it, feeling slippery wood under his fingers. Huge and round as it was, he guessed it was a piece of mast from either ship. Keeping his one-armed hold onto the wood, he yanked the other Man onto the chunk of wood, careful to ensure his arms were slung over the wood, keeping his head out of the water as much as possible.

 

He saw a shredded piece of rope drifting aside the wood on the water, the lower end torn to pieces where the rigging had come loose when the sail was ripped apart. He grabbed the frail end of the rope and used it to secure Boromir against the wood; as long as he was unconscious, he was in danger of losing his hold on the flimsy float the mast made.

 

Shakurán was not sure if he was getting used to the constant drain of strength from him, or if the seas themselves felt that he was trying to help one of their favorite children and relented on him for the moment. The wave raised them high above the waters, before plunging them down again, water dowsing them.

 

Gritting his teeth, Shakurán regained his hold onto the wood, pouring depleted reserves of strength into his fingers. The broken piece of the mast was not large enough for both of them – he’d have to swim – but it would provide some support.  His eyes went back to the fleet, but all he saw was raging water and rain. The storm came from the East and it had only just started. Grasping Boromir’s limp hand, Shakurán wondered if he’d live to see the end of the sea’s wrath.

 

***

 

The storm raged through the night, all day and into the next night, whipping the seas into a heated frenzy, as though they sought to bring another Great Drowning of Men over Arda. It was in the grey hours of another dawning day that the sea spat a Man onto the shores of a coastline far out in the Western seas, the waters rushing high, several times ripping the body back into the flood but finally, as the waves began to abate, he remained stranded on the wet sands of the island.

 

It was the cold that brought Boromir back from the dark abyss of peaceful oblivion. The freezing chill that emanated from his skin and through the wet clothes was enhanced by the wind scouring his body.

 

He lay on his side, hard rock digging into stiff muscles, though he felt the rough texture of sand under his hands. The sea was roaring hollowly not all that far away. Blinking slowly, he felt the coarse texture of sand clinging to his face and leaned on his arms to push his face away from the ground. What he saw was a sandy beach stretching to both sides in soft curves, interspaced with darker rocks. About fifty paces to the inland, long dune grass joined the landscape and the rocks began to rise higher.

 

His arms hurt when he put pressure on them to push himself up. Moving his fingers, he could tell it was only strained muscles; he had been swimming since… since the chunk of mast had been pulled under and he had been forced to struggle back to the surface, swimming in the middle of the raging cook pot of waves.

 

He coughed, still not quite believing that he truly had been washed ashore. Like sharks emerging from dark water, more memories came back: the fight against the Corsair ship sailing in the shadow of the island, the Easterling, the lightning striking, and long, nameless hours clinging to a piece of wood in the middle of the storm, and the struggle against the waves that had followed. Whom had he been swimming with?  He did not know. Someone fallen into the water as well, but his mind could conjure up nothing beyond the vague sense of someone being with him. His stomach heaved and he bent over as his body relieved itself of all the salt water he had swallowed.

 

His throat burned and he swallowed a few times to alleviate it at least a little. It did not help much but at least his body was done with spewing out the salty water. Shaking, he came to his feet, the wet sands cool against his bare toes – his boots must have been lost to the storm, along with most of his gear. Looking down on himself, he found the green leather tunic he had worn under the armor; torn and soaked, it clung to his skin. The breeches were ripped off under the left knee and clammy, having dried a little in the wind. There was not much more – everything else had to be on the bottom of the ocean.

 

Standing on the wet shore, he looked around. To one side, he only saw the sea, waves crashing against the shoreline. Looking for the sun, he frowned. The sun was not very high up in the skies yet, but if he took the sun’s position into account, he was looking _East_ onto the ocean, which felt all wrong by itself; usually when looking out on the endless waters, the eye went _West,_ but when he turned around to look West, he saw a rocky island rise behind him, some of the stark stone formations overgrown with grass and bushes, a huge mountain rising in a distance that he would estimate as twenty or thirty leagues. Should there be another island that lay so far out? he wondered, but his eye got distracted by a dark spot on the sands only a hundred paces away.

 

Another body lay unmoving on the pale shore close to the waterline, the waves still touching the Man’s feet. Boromir turned that way and hastened towards the spot. He could not see anyone else on the beach, nor did he spot any wreckage. How far out had he drifted? Had anyone else survived? The body at the shoreline was unmoving; he could as well be dead.

 

Boromir hoped he was not – another survivor would be a piece of hope, though he knew that the storm had most likely swallowed the ships up.  Could it be Veryan? Boromir had last seen him before they boarded the Corsair vessel; while Boromir had led boarding of the enemy ship, he had left Veryan in charge of the overall sea battle. Unease churned in his already unsettled stomach. Had Veryan made it through the storm alive? At least one of their ships had been lost to the storm, and it hardly seemed possible that anyone but him survived, and yet sprawled across the beach was evidence clearly stating otherwise.

 

If he was still alive.

 

When he came closer, he saw the Man had long black hair, tangled wildly across his face and still wet enough to shine the light of dawn. He hadn’t been out of the water for long. His arms were outstretched and dug into the ground, claw-like furrows in the sticky sand. He had tried to claw his way ashore.

 

The tanned skin told Boromir at once that this could not be his friend, but rather someone from the enemy vessel. It was not a revelation he liked.

 

He slowed down, eyes carefully trained on the Man lying still on the sands, the waves licking at his feet. Could it be the one he had been swimming with?  Again he tried to remember. He had been on a piece of wood first, someone swimming with him, but the wood had been torn away and… he still could not conjure up more – all he remembered was the rage of the waters, swimming against the ocean itself and the vague sense of not being alone. No, there was more, only a glimpse, a fragment of something… drawn under the waters, someone grabbing him and an oddly familiar pair of eyes looking at him… He sighed – nothing to help him here.

 

When it came to the stranded enemy soldier, Boromir wished he could just ignore him, but the way he lay close to the waterline suggested he had barely had the strength to make it ashore. Letting him lie there and be drawn back into the water to drown would be a coward’s decision.

 

Kneeling down beside the Man, Boromir touched his shoulder and arm to roll him to the side. He wore only some ragged dark clothes that were still soaking wet, and his skin was deeply cold, colder than even the long time in the water seemed to warrant. Bracing one hand on the firm sand, he pushed aside the heavy wet locks, revealing a familiar face, unnaturally pale with exhaustion. Shakurán. Boromir remembered seeing him aboard the Corsair vessel, a captive amongst others. Like a slap it all came back to him: crashing into the Easterling when the lightning struck, tumbling into the water before it all became dark, clinging to the mast… and the waves nearly drowning them. It had been Shakurán with him in the storm. It was the strangest feeling but Boromir was not entirely surprised that the Easterling had helped him – it was something that fit him, in an odd kind of way. He had often shown his willingness to respect an enemy more than some friends. Still… Boromir had never owed his life to an enemy before, not by being spared out of mercy and certainly not for being saved in a tempest.

 

He grabbed the limp, cold shoulder firmly and shook the other Man. “Shakurán,” he said, his voice strained and hoarse from his throat’s burning. He was glad it was the Easterling who had been washed ashore and not one of the Corsairs. With Shakurán, he knew where he stood, whereas the Corsairs were thieves and pirates.

 

The Easterling moved slightly: his eyes opened, though his gaze was unfocused. His hands still clawed into the sand; he tried to move, painfully slow. Boromir helped him , and only to lie in a position where he could breathe easier. “Shakurán,” he repeated, not sure if the Man was even hearing him yet.

 

“Aye.” The Easterling’s voice was equally as rough when he spoke several moments later. He drew in his legs slightly and managed to get to his knees, before his body convulsed and he violently threw up. It was the very same reaction Boromir had lived through, only much longer and more painful. Cramps wracked the warrior’s body for a long time, shakes running through his muscles, as his body convulsed anew.

 

Reaching out to steady him, Boromir felt the muscles shiver under the skin; the entire body was caught in the violent spasm. He could feel Shakurán tense against his grip but did not brush him off, accepting what help he could give. The shuddering stilled first and the convulsions abated next until finally Shakurán managed to breathe normally. “You should have killed me right away, Boromir, before I woke up,” he snapped, his voice still raspy.

 

“Sorry to disappoint – my sword is on the bottom of the sea,” Boromir replied dryly, releasing his grip of the warrior.

 

“At least you spare me the moralizing that is wrong to kill a man half drowned.” Shakurán drew his legs in and pushed himself to his feet, only to get sick again, and collapsed back to his knees. There was no more water he could vomit on it seemed, his body spewing mostly air, cramping hard again and Boromir watched the ashen complexion of his skin grey even further.

 

Quickly he grasped Shakurán’s shoulders to steady him anew to feel the tremors under the skin again. They abated much quicker this time. “Are you injured?” He was not sure what caused these reactions, but the Easterling looked pale enough to join the ranks of the Nazgûl soon – not that Boromir wanted a tenth Black Rider with Shakurán’s skill. Nine were enough, to contend with.

 

“Need to get away from the water.” Shakurán again tried to get to his feet and this time Boromir understood why: contrary to himself, who felt quite well near the rushing waves, they harmed Shakurán. He slung the other warrior’s arm over his shoulder to support him, feeling the Easterling tense and then relent.  He nearly stumbled when a wave touched his bare feet, but Boromir’s firm grip held him steady as they walked away from the waves and up on the rocks of the island.

 

“What in the water makes you sick?” Boromir asked, seeing that with every step away from the waves Shakurán’s step became steadier and he stood more and more stable, though he was still pale and exhausted.

 

“Blessed ignorance!” Shakurán threw back his head and took a deep breath as he stepped away from Boromir’s support. “Have you ever drunk from a brook that comes down from the Morgul Vale?”

 

“No, they are poisonous.” Boromir raised his hand in an impatient gesture; at least Shakurán was able to stand on his own without another attack of cramps. “And I fail to see how a distraction will help you here.”

 

“I have – drunk from the brooks in Morgul Vale, I mean.” Shakurán rested his hands against his knees, breathing slowly in and out. “They never harmed me. The Western seas on the other hand – they don’t like my kind. Nearly did me in. Where are we?”

 

So the legend of the Western Seas not tolerating the darkness was more than just that, Boromir noticed, surprised. Shakurán’s weakened state spoke for itself. Boromir’s eyes went back to the waters. Who would have thought that the legend was true? Unfortunately nothing he saw allowed him to answer the question. They were stranded in parts unknown – who knew how far from home?

 

“Shouldn’t you know what shores lay close to your allies’ latest hideout?” he replied, his harsh words hiding his own unease. “I should have expected some plot of your kind behind so much Corsair acumen.”

 

Boromir walked a few steps to the end of the rocks they were standing on, which rose about two or three paces above the shoreline, forming a small spit that cut into the sandy beach. It might have once been a headland that had been eroded by the waters in countless decades.

 

“What do you know?” Shakurán grumbled, standing up straight. He ran his hand through his hair a few times; it didn’t help much but seemed to untangle the heavy wet locks a bit, and used two streaks of his thick, soaked mane to tie back the rest of the long hair. “We knew our friends in Umbar had a new port for their raids, but did not know where. I spent two stinking weeks on that Corsair ship to find out where it was, knowing that our ships were following my trail. So you tell me, son of the sea-kings, where in the name of old demented Gothmog are we?”

 

“Your guess is as good as mine. I have absolutely no idea where we are. Somewhere East of a lot of water; I cannot see any other coastline in that direction.” Boromir pointed East. Even from the slightly more elevated point they stood on now, he could see nothing but water.

 

“So we need the night to find out where we are stranded,” Shakurán said, stretching his arms and then reaching behind to his neck, rolling his head until there was sharp _snap_ as a joint sprang back into alignment. “I knew that there had to be a reason you were so stupidly magnanimous to leave me alive.”

 

“Says the man who took the time to rescue a Dorwinion slave from the sinking ship,” Boromir said, crossing his arms in front of his chest, “and who even went as far as to tell him that he could go to our ships.”

 

“What of it?” Shakurán turned around, his eyes swiftly surveying the grounds of the island behind them. He then began to walk further up the rocks, leaving Boromir standing where he was.

 

With Shakurán’s walk still unsteady, though he worked hard to hide the stumbles, Boromir caught up with him after a few steps. He was not sure where the Easterling was headed, but exploring the inland was a smart course of action. The shore was rocky, but there was grass on the rising hills no more than a hundred paces away and Boromir also could see trees further in, even as the entire grounds were composed of an uneven rocky structure. The sea was roaring behind them, the eternal song of the waves the only noise he could hear.

 

“I simply cannot see how a cold blooded warrior of the Shadow would go out of his way to rescue a slave.” It was something that he was still chewing on. He knew Shakurán was ruthless – he had been witness to that, been handed over to the dungeons of Minas Morgul by him… and yet, Shakurán had gone as far as _arguing_ with a Nazgûl about that. Why he did what he did was a riddle that Boromir could not solve. “Or trying to spare a captive the dungeons of Minas Morgul,” he added, wondering if he’d ever have an answer to that.

 

“Maybe I simply believed you’d be more useful on our side than fighting against us.” Shakurán climbed up on a rock, his bare foot finding hold on the next one. The cliffs they were climbing up were steep, but not truly shaped like any sea-side cliffs Boromir knew. Their form was more like that of a ragged, broken volcanic rock line. But they had to get up there if they wanted to enter the inland, for it seemed that this ring of cliffs ran along the entire shoreline.

 

“And what use would that poor slave have to you?” Boromir did not believe Shakurán’s answer; he knew when he was running into a wall.

 

“Have you ever _not_ been the son of a nobleman, the son of the Steward?” Shakurán scoffed as he reached for an overhang and pulled himself up onto the long grass above. “Have you ever tried to be just a simple Gondorian? It gets interesting when you do that – people who usually bow and scrape will suddenly kick you, others will look down on you, and some… some will still be friendly. Falon tried to be friendly to me, even when he hardly dared to speak to me, so I did the same for him in turn.”

 

“So you saved him, out of who knows how many slaves down in that hold, because you liked him?” Boromir asked. It was a cold way to choose, to simply rescue the one he cared for and let the rest drown. On the other hand, he would not have expected an Easterling to rescue anyone.

 

“You can choose to see it that way, or you can decide that his friendliness earned him a good fate in turn. Or maybe that his noble spirit deserved the rescue – if he survived that tempest at all.” Shakurán turned around to offer a hand, as he had already managed to reach the top of a sharp-edged cliff.

 

Boromir grabbed the sharp rocks, pulling himself up without help. “Where are you headed? Do you have any guess where we might be?”

 

Shakurán stopped atop the cliff and looked at Boromir. “I already told you I do not know. All I know that this is too cold for the sunken dark lands and too painful for the Undying Lands, so I say we still are in Middle-earth. And I go up there.” He pointed to an incision in the cliffs less than a mile away. “It has been washed out by water, and there are trees up there, so I venture to guess it still holds a wellspring.” He grabbed the next sharp teeth of rocks and pulled himself up. “I’d have expected a son of the sea kings to know what shores lie in the Western seas, but clearly I was wrong.”

 

“Can you stop calling me that? My family is not descended from Elendil.” Boromir did not comment on Shakurán’s decision to find water; it made sense, but then the Easterling had proven himself to be a capable survivor in the past.

 

“Really? The way I was taught, your history says that the House of Emyn Arnen began with an illegitimate son of King Anarion, son of Elendil, had with his one true love, which is also why you have the blood and position to rule Gondor in the King’s stead.”

 

“Do they really teach you such nonsense?” Boromir walked a bit brisker, shaking his head incredulously. They had come on a grassy cliff top where walking was easier now and they could approach the trees above the incision. “If my family was descended from any of the great Kings—”

 

“You’d be in line of succession, you just forgot about it. How convenient.” Shakurán’s voice echoed genuine amusement.

 

Boromir grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, forcing the Easterling to look at him. Shakurán’s hand came up, as though to block a hit but then he relaxed and let Boromir’s violent reaction happen. “It is not true. My family has never claimed something as ridiculous as being of King Anarion’s line, nor would we elevate ourselves to such a position.” Much as the topic of a returning King rankled with him, claiming something like this was disloyal and dishonorable.

 

“Whatever you say – it’s your house.” Shakurán’s eyes sparkled amusedly. “I merely tell you what each child in the Empire learns about your family.” He pushed off Boromir’s hand and continued to walk.

 

“Why does the Empire even teach Gondor’s history to their children? Is the Imperial history not long enough to keep them occupied?” Boromir could see that there was a stone basin between the trees and water was flowing from it. The sight of fresh water made his mouth feel doubly dry and his throat hurt more than before. All his arguing with Shakurán had only made it worse.

 

“Because knowing the Enemy’s history is imperative to not underestimating them,” Shakurán said, “and an educated person knows the neighboring nations, be they friend or foe.”

 

They reached the wellspring. The stone basin that framed the well was not a roughly hewn piece of rock but intricately carved in the shape of an exotic blossom. Boromir took some of the water in his hand and smelled it. It had no smell or stench. He raised his hand closer, unable to detect anything amiss. Still, he allowed himself barely to touch the cool liquid with his tongue, testing it. Truly, it tasted like sweet, fresh water. “It seems clean,” he said before using both hands to drink from the well. After the near drowning and the salt water, it felt good to have fresh water to drink again.

 

Shakurán accepted his verdict on the water wordlessly and drank from the well. He showed no adverse reaction to it. “It is strange,” he said, after he had enough, leaning against the side of the basin.  “This well… it reminds me of some of the old wells in the west quarters of Minas Morgul – the same odd flower shape, only that this one is much more intricate.”

 

“It is Minas Ithil you speak of,” Boromir corrected him, almost in reflex, like he had done in the past. Yet he took a closer look at the shape of the well. “And the flower depicted is an Elven rose – or that’s at least what I was told. There are similar wells in Minas Tirith, but they are the oldest in the city.” He squatted down when he saw there was an inscribed band along the “petals” of the well’s rim. “Stranger even… there is an inscription in Adûnaic here.”

 

“What does it say?” Shakurán asked, leaning his hands on the side of the well and inspecting the inner rim of the well for markings.

 

Frowning, Boromir began to read the ancient words. His own Adûnaic was rusty at best; he had never paid that much attention to the lessons in a tongue that had not been spoken in an Age. “‘Fifth well of fresh life above the road to Arandor…’ No that cannot be… I must have misread it.” Cautiously, his eyes went over the landscape surrounding them – it was impossible, it had to be. A cold, heavy feeling crept into his stomach. What if… what if he was not wrong? What if the name of the well heralded the one place in the world that should have been destroyed long ago?

 

“Why?” Shakurán pushed away from the well’s rim, studying the surroundings, but there was no other man-made structure visible anywhere close. “What is wrong with that… Wait, you know where this Arandor would be found?”

 

“You do not know the word? I see that the education of a civilized citizen of the Empire has limits after all.” Boromir got up again, keeping an eye on their surroundings. Was it his imagination or did the land around them suddenly seem more empty and eerily silent?  “And I must have misread – it is impossible.”

 

“We are taught _relevant_ history, not all the stories of the Numernorán tribe – enough of that comes up in the history of my people anyway,” Shakurán shot back. “And even as it is unlikely, you should tell me where you think we are.”

 

“I do not because it is impossible, Shakurán, simply impossible. How would you feel if this was an Orc well that said it was the fifth well on the road to Thangorodrim?”

 

Shakurán’s eyes sparkled at the challenge. “The fact aside that Orc wells do not have inscriptions… I’d hope we’d get the chance to find the Hall of Eternal Vows – one of the ancestors of my house swore the three oaths there, and I’d like to reaffirm my own in the same place.”

 

“Why did I expect a reasonable answer from you?” Boromir grumbled. He had to admit Thangorodrim might sound foreboding, but at least it would hold interesting clues of a war long past and safely over. This… this place was different and he did not like it at all. “Come nightfall I hope you can ascertain our position on the ocean… Were I to tell you what I fear, it might color your perception of the results.”

 

And he was sure he was wrong – it was impossible, it _had_ to be a mistake. Maybe there had been two places of similar name. Boromir refused to believe what he had read, though a nagging doubt inside him whispered that Elendil might have had many compelling reasons to draw that line on the map. Preventing another doom for the world was certainly one of them.

 

“You are actually making sense, Boromir,” Shakurán relented. “We have water and we can find food to last us until one of the fleets rescue us. But how do you know that I can calculate our position once I see the stars?”

 

Boromir felt a little chastised. He had never bothered with such fancy skills in favor of all lore related to war. “I am relying on your good Imperial education,” he joked, eliciting a grin from Shakurán.

 

Finding food proved easier than it looked. Not far from the trees they found a valley that held a number of fruit trees and edible plant life, and though they did not find any animals, they found enough food to sustain them. As they both were still exhausted from the long night in the water, they made camp near the wellspring, content to rest and let their bodies recover from the ordeal out at sea. The air was warm and they both fell asleep under the drowsy summer sun, neither of them able to keep watch or be too wary of the other. When they woke, night had come and above them shone the stars.

 

Boromir searched the skies, finding the familiar shapes of the guardian warrior, the lion, and the bear high above them, except the Western star was too high up in the air, and he had a hard time translating that into a correct position. He saw that Shakurán had risen and stood away from the trees to have the full gaze at the skies. Or did he? Boromir looked closer and saw that Shakurán’s shoulders were slumped and he was looking out on the sea. He rose and walked up to the Easterling. Shakurán’s eyes were fixed on the ocean with an open, vulnerable expression on his face that he would probably hide had he noticed Boromir approaching him. But he did not react to his presence in any way. “You can tell where we are, can’t you?” Boromir asked, keeping his voice friendly. If Shakurán was that shocked by what he had seen then this was a bad time to start another argument.

 

“1700 miles off Dol Amroth, 1800 leagues North-west of Umbar, far out in the Western seas, at least a day’s worth of sailing from our last position, if not more,” Shakurán replied, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “We are beyond what you call Elendil’s line.”

 

“How far beyond the line?” Boromir tensed, trying in his mind to picture the point on the map.

 

“Fifteen leagues, maybe a little more but not much.” Shakurán’s voice was still low, his gaze avoiding Boromir.

 

Studying his face from the side, Boromir could see Shakurán’s profile in the light of the pale moon that stood above. While the other Man hid it well, he saw the trembling lips and pallid complexion. “Shakurán?” he asked. “What is it? No matter where we are, even if a stroke of strange fate drew us to the shores of Aman herself…”

 

Boromir did not know how to address the fear he read in the other warrior. Shakurán was fearless: he had seen the Man fight and laugh at unbelievable odds and dangers, confronting superior numbers, Haradrim plots, and the enraged ghost of a long dead king with nothing more than a grin and some well-chosen barbs. If he was afraid, it had to be something deep rooted, cast away from all the safety and  protections he knew. He reached out and placed a firm hand on the Easterling’s shoulder. “We will get through this… somehow.”

 

Shakurán turned to him, his dark eyes wide. “You really do not know?” he asked, his voice softer than ever before. “You… you do not know.”

 

Something cold feathered up Boromir’s back; it was not the wind, but somehow the entire landscape around them did not seem peaceful anymore. What was sleeping on these shores? “Know what? Shakurán where are we?”

 

“Boromir – in this position, 1700 leagues off Dol Amroth in breadth and in line with what is known as the Tuor Island in the North… in that position, the old maps show the island of Númenor!” Shakurán’s voice shook slightly as he spoke. “And it should have sunken below the sea an Age ago.”

 

“Númenor?” Boromir whispered. So… the wellspring had been true… he had read rightly… or had he? He tried to calm down, feeling his blood hammer in his temples. He could not deny it any longer. First a name from the island and now the exact position? Was this why Elendil had forbidden his people to sail West again? Had he known that parts of the island were not sunken below the waters? Because the fact he had been raised with – the fact that Númenor had sunken under the seas – was a lie?

 

“Aye, the Island of Westernisse, as you call it. You have come home, son of the Sea Kings.” Shakurán exhaled sharply. “We are on the edge of the world.”

 

Closing his eyes, Boromir allowed himself to take all this in, to let the fear, the realization sink in. All hopes to be found by any ship were crushed by one word. Númenor, an island that was supposed to have been destroyed for millennia.  In a strange, terrible way it made sense: the storms surrounding the line of Elendil, the punishment by death to sail beyond, and the anger of the sea. For whatever reason, parts of the island lingered, the wrath of the seas prevented ships from approaching.

 

They were stranded, as surely as if they were thousands of miles off their course, lost. Thrown into a place that should not exist any more, that had been wiped off the map – and if he ever saw an island devoid of life, it was this. How could they hope to survive in a place cursed by the Valar themselves? Boromir did not know the answers, only that he had come to the loneliest place of the world, an island lost from memory and history… and maybe even from hope. It seemed an irony that he was stranded here with his enemy.

 

For more than an hour he simply looked at the dark landscape, the mountain afar and the sea washing against the beach. Would Faramir ever know what happened to him? Or would he simply believe him drowned? His father? Would they both try to find the truth, or would they mourn and struggle on alone? The war… The thought made Boromir’s head perk up. No matter what else happened, no matter what distances lay between him and his homeland, he could not leave his father, his brother to fight the war alone.

 

“We better not wait for any of our ships to find us,” he said as firmly as he could. “I doubt they could reach us. So we have to help ourselves.”

 

“How?” Shakurán asked. “Of course we can survive here and if we move farther towards the mountain, we should also find shelter from rough weather. Do… do you think there are still survivors here? The faithful Númenorans are supposed to have fled with Elendil, and the Dark Numenoráns are supposed to have drowned…”

 

It was a strange thought: they both might encounter enemies on this island, and neither of them could feel safe on the grounds of this atoll that should have sunken long ago. “Look around, Shakurán, we have not seen or heard any living being since we came to this island,” Boromir told him. “I doubt that anyone is alive here. But… history says that there was a huge mountain at the heart of Númenor, and if I look at what we saw today, I’d venture to guess that the peninsulas broke off but the heart of the island is intact. If all I heard right what my brother said about Númenor, the city of Armenelos was said to have an underground harbor… and it lay in the shadow of Mount Meneltarma.”

 

It had to be Mount Meneltarma, the sacred Mountain of Númenor, upon the top the Kings of Númenor were said to have prayed to Eru for their people – a strange practice that the history books had handed down to generations who only noted the fact and never wondered about a practice entirely foreign to them.

 

“You are thinking of finding a boat…” Shakurán’s eyes shone brightly in the light of the stars. “You are truly a stubborn son of this land. But… I am glad you are here.”

 

Boromir smiled. “Don’t you get sentimental on me. Where’s the arrogant Easterling who flaunts the education of an Imperial citizen at the most inappropriate times?”

 

The words elicited a smile on the Easterling’s lean face. “I’ll remind you of that the next time your Adûnaic is too lousy to translate an inscription.”

 

***

 

The next day they marched deeper into the land, leaving the coast behind. The farther they came from the coastline, the greener the land became, and they found water and fruit with such ease that Boromir began to think the stories about the blessed island were truer than people would believe in this time and age. The sun was already casting long shadows when they came down from an easy, sloping hill and approached a huge chasm. It was not a natural ravine – Boromir was sure of that. It looked more like a rift had opened in what had once been a river valley. Now it was a gasping deep, falling so steeply he could hardly see the bottom. Who knew what kind of powers had torn at the land the day it sank… and was kept afloat by something? On the other side, the silhouette of a city rose against the afternoon sun. Though it had fallen into ruin, with roofs collapsed and towers shattered, most of the walls were still standing, an eerie reminder of this island’s strange existence in spite of the wrath of the seas.

 

Boromir pointed North, towards a place where the remaining arches of a bridge spanned the chasm. “These must be the great bridges that led into the capital.” He narrowed his eyes. “The bridge piers are still standing, though some of the abutment is damaged and parts of the belt course are missing, but maybe we can get across.”

 

As they climbed closer on the hillside, they could see that a few of the bridge piers were empty, the belt broken, except for a small band on the South side, where the white and grey stones still connected all piers and the two sides of the bridge. Carefully, Boromir set foot on the small band of stones; they were rough but strangely warm under his bare feel. Balancing on them was not easy, especially as the chasm under them was deep, and the ground was covered in white mists. But he focused on one step after the other, not peering down to where the abyss vanished into shadow down below. Some of the stones were loose and threatened to fall under his step but each time he found his balance again to not slip. Still, he exhaled deeply as he reached the other side.

 

A crash behind him made him whirl around; the last part of the band that he had just narrowly passed had broken off behind him, the stones tumbling into the deeps.

 

Shakurán stood still on the last safe piece of the band, keeping his balance on the fiercely swaying construction. The wind was tearing at his ragged clothes, unraveling the makeshift ponytail until his long hair was only a plaything for the gale.

 

Boromir looked to the side, searching for some place where Shakurán could evade the fall, but there was only the chasm spanning left and right. Once Shakurán lost his hold, he would fall and crash on the floor of the chasm. “Shakurán! Jump!” he called out. It was the only course of action that could be taken before the entire bridge collapsed.

 

He saw Shakurán lean back, gaining all the push he could, and then the Easterling jumped. Boromir stood close to the rim of the chasm, his feet finding purchase in the crusted sand between the tufts of grass, leaving enough room for Shakurán to land on.

 

Shakuran’s body flew through the air, though his usual cat-like movements were hampered and his jump came out too short, only one foot hitting the side of the ravine. He slipped, the stones sliding away under his feet, crashing down into the deeps.

 

Boromir lunged forward, grasping both his arms. He was pulled forward as Shakurán lost his tenuous hold on the ground. Grass slithered under his bare feet and he felt the sand break between his toes as he was pulled towards the stony rim. His arms strained when he felt the full weight of the other warrior being drawn towards the deeps. It felt like something was grasping for the Easterling to pull him down to the bottom of the ravine.

 

“Let go…” Shakurán’s breath was ragged as he tried to find a hold against the grip that was plunging him deeper.

 

Gritting his teeth, Boromir did not give ground. Maybe there was something on this island set on destroying the Easterling, maybe there was something that wanted to plunge him down into the chasm, but he’d not give in to that. With an effort, he pulled him up; Shakurán helped, his feet finding hold on the side of the chasm, pushing him up again. In one strong pull, Boromir yanked him away from the rim and onto the onto safe grounds, though in the few moments before Shakurán’s feet found purchase on the grass, Boromir again felt like there was something trying to drag the Easterling down into the abyss. He did not let go until they were several steps away from the chasm.

 

Panting, Shakurán stood, keeping away from the chasm’s rim, not looking back at the deeps. “Thank you.”

 

Boromir waved it off, trying to not show his own relief. He did not want to discuss why he had saved Shakurán, why he had saved his enemy. He did not want to debate it, not with the smart-tongued Easterling, and not with himself. “Let us move on. I would like a look at the city in daylight before we have to camp there.”

 

Shakurán rubbed his neck, as though he had strained it. “I… I have the strangest feeling, Boromir. Like something in that city is calling out to me, with a voice shriller than a thousand drums, echoing to me, calling for me to reach it. But there also is something trying to push me away from that drum....”

 

“You may be the first of your kind to ever walk these shores; who knows how the old walls will react to your presence?” Boromir pointed out, wondering what might call to Shakurán from a distance. “All I feel is a great sadness from these ruins. It feels like walking in a long forgotten crypt to find the candles still burning.”

 

The city gate was an elaborate work of art, statues adorning the sides, and carrying the gateway were two mighty figures depicting two chained warriors, nearly crushed under the heavy load of stone that was the gate. While the artwork was exquisite, far surpassing all that Boromir had ever seen in Minas Tirith, there was an arrogance in it that he could not abide. Even in triumph – and what triumph was this gate supposed to refer to? – such depictions were meaningless, a flaunting of strength that was already in the past. And… it felt distasteful to Boromir. A foe, even a conquered one, deserved some amount of respect, lest he be underestimated the next time around.

 

Shakurán must have spotted his glare because he chuckled. “I really am beginning to wonder if you are descended from the twelve thousand lost ones, the way you react to the triumphs of your ancestors.” His keen eyes surveyed the gate but even as one of the defeated warriors was clearly an Easterling, he did not seem moved by it.

 

Boromir turned around. “Though I do not know who the twelve thousand lost ones are, such displays are demeaning – they show a low spirit in those who felt they had to erect reminders for those they humbled. There is no true pride here… only arrogance, and arrogance in a strength that hardly was their own.”

 

Shakurán titled his head slightly. “You’d make a good citizen of the Empire – too bad you were born Numenorán, but I think one of the twelve thousand must have been your ancestor.”

 

“You might make a good Gondorian, if you could be taught to be less harsh,” Boromir shot back with a grin. In its own way, it was fun to exchange barbs with the Easterling, far away from their respective troops and roles.

 

They walked through the streets of the city. While many buildings were roofless, and some were collapsed, many still stood, like time had little influence over this city. But they all were empty. As they walked, Boromir could not spot a single bone or any other trace of existence lying around. It was like the island as a whole had been purged, all traces of its former inhabitants gone. A long lost grave with an inscription the passing traveler was unable to decipher. The thought was a sad one.

 

At the heart of the city, Boromir saw a huge dark building towering above the rest of the city. Even the palace, with its grand, elegant spires, was not as high. But he could not place the black ziggurat with anything he had read about Númenor’s famous capital: no description of any building he had ever heard matched it. But a building of such size and obvious importance should have been mentioned in the chronicles. Or had he simply drowned out too many things? Faramir would most likely know at once what this black ziggurat was.

                                                                                                                                             

“So who are these twelve thousand?” he asked, trying to distract himself from the empty city with its endless silent streets.

 

“They were citizens from the first Eastern kingdom,” Shakurán told him while they walked through the gate and into the city. “When the battle of Dargorlad was lost and the Lord of Barad-Dûr fell, they were sent West, the weakest, least enduring of our people, to throw themselves down before the victors and pretend to have seen the error of their ways.”

 

“I have read of this – King Menedhil showed them mercy, much to Isildur’s vexation, and they became good citizens of Gondor later on… but you said they were sent. Why?” Each time their conversations touch on points like this one, Boromir was left with the feeling that the history of their respective nations was much more complicated than both sides might like. How many such links did their people have? How often had the chance to become friends or allies been lost to sheer stupidity?

 

Eyes trained on the city, taking in the palace, the ziggurat and the ruins around them, Shakurán said, “They were sent to make the victors feel they had conquered all there was of the Eastern kingdom, while the rest of the populace, the most hardy of the legions, every strong survivor, retreated into the wilds of the East, where they would later found the second Empire. The twelve thousand made a great sacrifice by cutting themselves off from their people to allow their people to endure.”

 

“Survival is a trait of your people, is it not?” Boromir asked, choosing a path deeper into the city; he had no clear idea where to find that underground harbor, but he had a vague notion that the palace would have had access to the lower levels. “You came from the East when Morgoth fell, and then survived your new Lord’s fall and now rise with him again…”

 

Shakurán shot him a glare. “Either use a respectful name for the Great Lord or none at all. My people swore to live and die, to fight and let go, to follow, await and obey the Great Lord at a time when most other Men still crawled at the feet of the Elves and learned to sing from them. For him we fought, to him we swore, and to him we relinquish our souls to go into the void in the hour we die – and with him we will return on the day he breaks the Gate of Night.”

 

Boromir saw the change in Shakurán’s mien: these were not learned lines repeated from tradition – Shakurán’s face was earnest and his eyes shone with a dark fire. He truly believed in what he said, and while Boromir had often read of the vile grimace of the Shadow’s followers, he could not find Shakurán’s face less noble or proud than before. Maybe that was what was most frightening about the Easterlings: they were no slaves, no allies forced into subservience – they stood exactly where they wished to and they believed in their cause. If half of Gondor had the same fierce will, the defenses would look much better. “What of Sauron – he is your Lord too?”

 

“He was one of the Great Lord’s foremost servants and rules in his stead.” Shakurán looked aside, averting his gaze. “Let us not talk further. I should not have spoken of it.”

 

In silence they walked through the broken streets. The silence that was perpetual on the island was heavier here, where they could not hear the rushing of the sea any more. As they navigated streets growing ever-darker with the sun’s disappearance behind the sharp edge of the mountain, Boromir studied Shakurán, who walked silently with him. It seemed the Easterling had retreated inside himself, like all that their discussion had brought to the surface was now sinking back behind a mask. While he could not be sure why Shakurán had ended their discussion, Boromir did not push the topic. The Great Imperial Succession had made the dark worship mandatory inside the Empire again, and while he was sure Shakurán would never admit to any doubts, who knew what he truly felt?

 

Shaking off his musings, Boromir kept his attention on the city, trying to align an old map he had once seen with what he saw now to pinpoint where they would have to look for the underground harbor. Shakurán followed him, surveying the ruins sharply for dangers, though his eyes would stray to the black ziggurat now and then. The closer they came to the building, the more Boromir disliked it. He could not say why – there was nothing overtly warning him, but he was uneasy with the black, clean-lined building that seemed to have survived as the only undamaged building inside the city. When he caught Shakurán gazing at it again, he decided to call him on it. “If you have anything to share, now is the time.”

 

“It is a good landmark – we should be able to see it from across the city without problems. It will help us should we get lost,” he replied, pointing at the tip of the ziggurat first and then in a wide gesture around himself, indicating the entire width of the city. “Though that won’t help us in the darkness. Night is falling already, Boromir, and I think I saw a well in that ruin over by the broken archway. Let us get a few hours of sleep and begin the search when we can see more than just shadows.”

 

Boromir would have preferred to begin the search right away but he had to admit that Shakurán had a point – they both were tired from walking all day. A few hours of sleep would help them to be sharp and alert when they were forced to venture underground.

 

They camped in a ruined house not far from the huge square below the dark ziggurat. Boromir was glad to keep his distance; there was something unwholesome lurking behind the angular, black stone. His thoughts were restless when he laid down that night. He had been raised by those who believed that the Eastern Men were vile savages whipped into the service of the Shadow without a thought or choice of their own, but he had learned different with the years he had spend fighting them. Shakurán was a prime example of their kind: proud, faithful and honorable in their own way. If he could be made to see the error in the belief he had been raised with in the Shadow, he would make a formidable ally. But how? How could he convince Shakurán that he believed wrong? Some things were easy – the Easterlings were proud sons of Arda, there was a dislike even in the teasing term ‘son of the Sea Kings,’ and of course they disliked those tribes of Men that had been ‘elevated’ through their close link to the Elves. But all that was long in the past – there was enough room in Middle-earth for all tribes of Men, and if they stood together, there was nothing they could not achieve.

 

Boromir’s thoughts became feverish: what if… what if there was a way to turn the Easterlings entirely away from the Shadow? Sure, they were power-hungry and lusting for conquest… but if they were turned against Mordor, against Harad, against Khand, they’d make powerful allies. Together with them, Gondor could crush Mordor and destroy Harad. It would take a genius to bring it about; it would take honesty as much as conviction… but Boromir was sure he had enough of both to try. It was a path to bring about a new dawn of Men…

 

Tossing restlessly, Boromir drifted into a heavy sleep and then back into semi-waking, his mind wandering the path of conquest – Jadhur, the ruling Easterling Emperor, would have to be done away with, but that was not so new to the East – they had their share of great wars of succession and even the ruling bloodline had changed a number of times over the course of the centuries. But once the throne was free, the entire Empire could be changed, the fierce will to fight, their joy for battle they had turned against Barad-Dûr itself… With such an army by his side, Boromir knew they could raze the Black Tower and free Minas Ithil.

 

A small noise jolted him awake, ripping him from his leaden sleep. He sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. The spot beside him where Shakurán had been sitting was empty, and looking around he did not see anyone nearby. Shakurán was gone. Rising to his feet, Boromir shook off the dreams; they still were alluring but he had more pressing matters – namely, finding his wayward Easterling. When he stepped outside, he saw that the stone figures lining the stairs of the dark ziggurat bore burning torches. Suddenly his heart nearly stopped – Ar-Pharazôn, the last King of Númenor, had ordered a temple for Melkor built – a five-hundred foot tall building erected in the capital! How could he have forgotten? And how could the temple have survived the destruction of the island?

 

Boromir hastened up the long flight of stairs. Doubtlessly Shakurán had gone up to the temple. He was a worshipper of the dark and raised to that dread cult in the Empire. Taking three stairs at once, he made swift work of the long ceremonial steps; strangely, the stone felt neither slimy nor cold under his feet. Hastening upwards, Boromir felt a deep dread rise in his soul, like with every step he felt a shout to not go on, to turn around and flee. But he wouldn’t. He would find answers.

 

When he reached the archway that led into the temple, he could see the fires ablaze inside. Stone tripods illuminated a huge black stone statue of an eerie, powerful presence. The statue depicted a warrior – an unearthly beautiful man in armor, one hand wielding a hammer, the other raised, supporting a flame. He wore a crown adorned with three shimmering stones. The very beauty of the statue made it so frightening at the same time, and Boromir knew if he looked too long at the stone depiction, he might be crushed, losing his soul.

 

He had expected to see Shakurán somewhere flung to the ground before the idol, but his eyes found the Easterling standing in the light of the fires, both hands raised, his bare arms bleeding from intricate patterns carved into them, his voice raised into a deep, resonant chant. Boromir’s heart froze. This was so compelling and so _wrong_ at the same time – he wanted to rush inside and drag Shakurán outside, to prevent him from completing this ritual. He tried to step forward, but his feet were locked and the more he strained, trying to take a step inside the temple hall, the more firmly he was rooted down by an invisible hold.

 

The chant came to an end, and the flames poured from the chalices, running over the floor in fiery lines, encircling Shakurán entirely, before they licked up at him. _”Shakurán!”_ he wanted to shout, but his lips would not move nor would his voice take tone. Even the words failed him, like all he could say or would say was fading from him.

 

The flame enveloped Shakurán, and for an indeterminable amount of time, there was nothing but a flaming figure in the heart of the temple, and then the flames sank down, whispering, with Shakurán still standing unharmed in the circle, fiery lines sealing the cuts in his arms. Boromir felt a weight lift from him; something vanished, his mind suddenly clearing, the strange thoughts of the night fading away. Suddenly he could stand in the presence of this hall with his mind calm and clear. He saw Shakurán go to one knee before the statue and then pick something up from the ground. A sword! Then the Easterling turned and walked out of the hall, the flaming braziers burning out as he passed.

 

Boromir awaited him outside. While he could walk again, he did not leave the point from whence he had observed it all, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Shakurán came closer, the final torches dying beside him – maybe it was just Boromir’s overactive imagination but the presence of the Easterling had eerily strengthened. He walked firmly, with no trace of exhaustion, and the marks of the near drowning had faded from him entirely. No scratches, no bruises, even the black hair was free of any trace of salt. And he seemed so much stronger, like there was an invisible cloak of darkness surrounding him, lending him power. It was amazing, shocking… and so utterly wrong that Boromir hardly found words to react to his presence. Shakurán walked past him, and a whisper of shadow brushed against Boromir, a presence that all too vividly reminded him of the deeps of Minas Morgul. He cleared his throat. “I guess that sword is meant for use on me?” he asked coldly.

 

Coming around in one fluid move, Shakurán looked at him, eyes wide in surprise. “No, it was not and still is not,” he said firmly, his voice once again the deep resonant tune Boromir had known, no hoarseness, no gravelly tones left in it. Now, under the light of the moon, he could see the faint lines shine on Shakurán’s arms; the bleeding lines the fire had sealed formed a beautiful… and sick… pattern on the toned arms. “Though I am surprised to find you here. Shadows above – few uninitiated would have lasted on their way up these stairs. Boromir – why do you insist to risk your life for an enemy?”

 

Shakurán stepped closer and it took all of Boromir’s willpower to not step back from him. Or step towards him? While all inside him revolted against the embracing of the Shadow he had just witnessed, a small but insistent part deep inside him whispered that Shakurán had walked unscathed from the temple, his powers restored – a mighty warrior once more.

 

“Maybe because said enemy is my only company in this accursed place?” Boromir snapped. He tried to not stare at Shakurán, but he couldn’t stop. The Easterling was not simply the Man he had met before – he was a warrior of Men at the height of his power, with nothing to fear and a world to conquer. Was this the strength Men had sought in the West so long ago and been denied? A part of Boromir wanted to know more; he knew Shakurán was not a monster, not the kind of depraved creature stories pictured the Shadow’s followers as. His eyes went back to the temple, the statue inside only a shadow shrouded in darkness now. How much suffering had the worship of the Shadow brought to this island?  How much death and destruction? Deep down in his heart, Boromir already knew the answer. “I should have known you would not resist practicing your foul worship here,” he grumbled, somehow trying to hide that for one moment he had been fascinated with what he had seen.

 

They walked down the stairs, Shakurán only stopping when they stood down in the square. “Tell me, Boromir – what do you believe in?” he asked. “And don’t answer ‘Gondor’; Gondor is a nation and a cause. What do you believe in beyond that? What do you believe when you are alone and the night encroaches on you? To whom do you call?”

 

Taken aback, he looked at the Easterling, who truly seemed to mean the question. “That’s irrelevant – I do not worship the Shadow,” he spat, not sure what angered him more: the blatant flaunting of the dark faith or the questions he had no answer for.

 

“And that’s exactly it – you do not believe at all. Have you ever prayed to Manwe, or Eru for that matter?” Shakurán challenged him. “Or do you truly try to do it all by your strength alone?”

 

“I wouldn’t even know how to go about such a prayer…” Boromir had not wanted to say it but it was the stark truth. Of the many things he had been taught – warfare, rulership, leadership, history… belief had never been a topic. Nor had he ever truly missed it, though the question what he believed in, what he was fighting for when he opposed the Shadow, was one that he could not quite shake off.

 

“Exactly.” Shakurán sighed, putting the blade into the leather loop hanging from his back. “When your kings made the rule that only they were permitted to pray to Eru, they deprived your people of something essential, of something that should never be lost.”

 

“You believe in Eru?” Boromir frowned, Shakurán reminded him of an oddly cut stone – no matter from which side one looked, there always was a new facet to discover. “But Melkor rebelled against him.”

 

“Eru created Melkor, like he created all – if that is true, then to what purpose was he made if not to rebel and test this world?” Shakurán asked. “He is exactly what Eru created him as…” He raised his hands towards Boromir. “Come with me.” He turned and walked across the square without checking if Boromir followed him.

 

Boromir wished he could simply let this Easterling go, but there was a part of him that whispered that the question Shakurán had asked needed an answer. And still… he could not deny there was a point to what he had said. He walked with a power that was greater than his own, and from what Boromir had seen, he also was protected by powers beyond this world. Maybe, maybe in spite of the fate of this island, in spite of all he had been told, he should listen. Not wasting any more time, he followed him and caught up with Shakurán as he was descending a narrow stairwell at the back of an alley. “Where are we going?”

 

“To a place you need to see,” Shakurán replied curtly. He checked their direction by the buildings several times, until they stood before a simple door leading underground. A curved inscription adorned the round stone arch, and Boromir stopped to read it. _Stranger, if you know the suffering we bear, do not forget us in your prayers._ Strange and foreboding words. “How do you know where to go?” he asked as they descended another set of stairs and down into a dry, warm underground cellar.

 

“I was shown a vision of this city,” Shakurán replied. “It will fade as time passes, but I shall be able to remember key points, including the underground harbor. This… this was not a key point but it still is a place you need to see.”

 

Realizing that he would not get any clear answers, Boromir simply followed him. He was sure it was no trap of any sort – if Shakurán had wanted to kill him, he could have done so outside of the temple and been done with it. For some strange reason, he still felt Boromir’s company was necessary, though he certainly did not need to rely on him anymore, now that his strength was restored. It was more likely that all Boromir saw was another bout of educated superiority from the Easterling soldier. After they descended the last flight of stairs, they came upon a simple white archway leading into a hall. Shakurán pointed ahead, his eyes almost gently tracing over the white archway. “Go in – I do not know if I can enter.”

 

Boromir stopped in front of the doorway. “Whatever this prank is, Shakurán, either you go in, or I will not.” He met the other Man’s eyes. He had put up with enough for one night already.

 

Shakurán sighed and slipped off the sling that held the sword, placing it on the floor outside. “Very well, if you insist.” He walked to the archway, his shoulders tensing as he passed through it, and he stepped very carefully, but kept his steps even, one after the other.

 

Expecting similar discomfort, Boromir followed him, but all he felt was a welcoming warmth as he entered the room. Upheld by one dark pillar shone a white marble hall, one of the most beautiful yet simple halls Boromir had seen. A gentle silence embraced this hall, not the oppressive, devoid of all life silence on the outside, but a deep, warm silence that felt welcoming and serene. One single block of shining crystal rested at the far end of the hall and the walls held rectangular stone panels with engraved writings. “What is this place?” he asked, hardly daring to speak out loud.

 

“The secret temple of Eru, built by the faithful when they were displaced. Here they dared to pray to the One right under the noses of their enemies.” Shakurán smiled, and there was an echo of admiration for such tenancy in his voice. “The very walls hold the instructions, the prayers… This temple is legend, Boromir.”

 

Boromir recalled hearing a story about such a temple from Faramir long ago. How his brother would revel in finding such a place! He would read all the inscriptions and most likely explain them to Boromir. But he was not here; he had to try on his own. Approaching the first panel in the wall, he tried to read what was written there.

 

“ _Inti her quad zi in: Uuaz ist thaz ir mih suohtut?_ _Ni uuestut ir, thaz in thên_ … ‘And your voice shall ask questions, though I know that my spirit is what must seek the answers.’”  It went slowly – the dialect was archaic and he was more than rusty. “Are these prayers?” he asked after working through several lines of the ancient text.

 

“Aye.” While visibly pale and tense, Shakurán stood reading another one to Boromir’s right. “That they are – the very lore of your people, son of the sea kings. You should take the time to memorize them and bring them back to your people.” Boromir noticed that he seemed to have little trouble deciphering the ancient texts.

 

Leaving the panel alone, Boromir walked to Shakurán. He could see the tense posture and pallid skin; Shakurán was more than uncomfortable – he was in pain and trying to hide it. “Why, Shakurán?” he asked. “Why do you try to teach my about a faith you do not share?”

 

The Easterling’s chin shot up. “Because when I fall, I will relinquish my soul to the void, Boromir, to serve in the Great Lord’s eternal legions. And on that day that will come when we go to break the Gate of Night, I want to find you there, right out in the dark, standing on the Star Wall – I want another battle against you and I really do not want to search all the other afterlifes of the world to find you again.”

 

The words made Boromir smile: they were so totally Shakurán – always set on another war and swift to flaunt that he was a loyal servant of the Shadow – and that his soul was sworn to the war eternal. But beneath all that there was more. “Shakurán,” he said calmly, reaching for his shoulder. “No jokes this time, no barbs about fighting an eternal war, or wanting another battle with me – I want to know why. Why are you trying so hard to show me something that my people forgot before they even sailed from these accursed shores?”

 

Shakurán looked up to him and in this moment the stern mask of the warrior and legion commander melted away, making room for a more thoughtful face. “Because you are exhausted, my friend. You try to fight and go on your own strength alone, yet your soul is burning out. You are tired, desperate, because you have no one to turn to, nothing beyond yourself… and we all belong to something greater than that, we all have a destination beyond this world, from whence our true strength originates. Deny it and you deny yourself. But it was stolen from you – taken by kings who hoarded a knowledge they should have shared freely with their people. I cannot imagine what it must mean to live deprived of the spirit, how alone you must be in your heart. And maybe for once I wanted to truly aid you.”

 

His explanation left Boromir at a loss for words, he could feel the honesty in them, Shakurán believed in what had said… and in his own strange way was trying to help him, even though Boromir could not fathom why. When he wanted to speak, the vision before his eyes blurred, Shakurán’s face swimming, everything melding into a light that held no dimensions. And then suddenly imagines flooded Boromir’s mind. They were not coherent, nor had they any true connection. He saw the valley of a dying river; a dry land under the harsh glare of the summer sun; a fragile, tired looking woman whispering stories to a small boy, stories that were secret, not to be told to others. The boy grew and his mother vanished; he grew further and became a warrior, her words half forgotten but never quite pushed from his mind. And suddenly Boromir saw Shakurán again as he was now, and he knew he had understood something about the Easterling, something he could not yet put into words – he was not even sure if it made sense. Rubbing his hand over his eyes, he tried to focus. “Even… even if I could remember all that is here… it would take me too long to translate it all,” he said, trying to not show what just had happened.

 

Shakurán tilted his head ever so slightly. “Then I’ll help you – we are taught your ancient tongue in the Empire, you know.”

 

***

 

Four days later, Boromir stood at the rim of a huge cave mouth that opened from the underground harbor to the slow curves of a teal gulf. The waters licked against the stones that framed the shores, gently skipping a large glass boat that shook softly on the waves, like it was waiting for them. The catamaran was not only of unusual form but also the glass bow reflected the light on the water, making the boat appear brighter than it already was.

 

Shakurán came down the last stairs that led from the cave up to the underground halls proper and stepped outside with him. “And there we are, the end of the journey,” he said.

 

“The boat can carry us home,” Boromir said hopefully. While he felt he could not share what he had experienced in the hall under the city, he felt lighter for it.

 

“It can carry you,” Shakurán replied, raising his arm to the East. When Boromir followed the gesture with his eyes, he saw the angry waves and one dark ship fighting its way across the stormy main. “I have my own way home. I had hoped _Voidstar_ would make it across in spite of the barrier of storms.”

 

Boromir looked at him. Shakurán’s mien was the usual stern face he presented to the world, but he knew that there was a much deeper person underneath. “Do you have to go?” he asked. “The boat could carry us back to Gondor. I… I wish I had the words to show you that the path you chose is wrong, more wrong than you can imagine. Do not condemn your soul to the void needlessly.”

 

Shakurán bowed his head, looking down. “I have a brother and a family in the Empire, Boromir,” he said softly. “Joining you would put hardships on them, and mean I’d have to fight them one day. I can’t do that; you could not fight your brother either.” He looked up, the calm Easterling captain back in place. “See that you go swiftly. I will tell them that I was alone on the island, but a veiled sorcerer might spot you anyway. So do not tarry.”

 

Boromir nodded, seeing that there was no other way – when they met again they’d still be foes, they’d still fight a lethal war, and they’d still be something like friends. “Fare well, Eru with you, Shakurán of the sleeping river.” He did not smile when he saw the startled face; he only had learned Shakurán’s true name in the white hall.

 

“Eru with you too, Boromir of Gondor.” Shakurán turned around and swiftly climbed the hillside to reach the high cliff on the other side of the small sound.

 

Entering the boat, Boromir found it had neither oars nor sail, but the moment he entered it, the vessel pushed off the shore and carried him away from the shores of Númenor. It moved safely and swiftly through the restless waves, carrying him speedily away from what remained of Númenor. When Boromir turned around, he saw the broken island surrounded by crashing waters and on the tip of the landside stood a tall Easterling, one arm outstretched, sword raised to the skies, embraced by the storm.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of non-profit fan fiction using characters from the Hobbit/Lord of the Rings world, which is trademarked by J.R.R. Tolkien. All characters created and owned by Tolkien INC, and I do not claim any ownership over them or the world of Middle Earth. The story I tell here is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of J.R.R. Tolkien's story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line. I am grateful to J.R.R. Tolkien for his wonderful stories about Middle Earth, for without his books, my story would not exist.


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